


Condemned

by RandomRyu



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark, Family Issues, Going to Hell, Hell, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV First Person, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomRyu/pseuds/RandomRyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Leslie Hale, and I want to go to hell. </p>
<p>	That sounds a bit too dark, doesn’t it? Well, I should start from the beginning. The reason I want to be in that horrible place only spoken about by Christians and uptight, controlling parents. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Original story based off a dream I had and a book written by Chuck Palaniuk titled 'Damned.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My name is Leslie Hale, and I want to go to hell. 

That sounds a bit too dark, doesn’t it? Well, I should start from the beginning. The reason I want to be in that horrible place only spoken about by Christians and uptight, controlling parents. 

Well, I come from a family of three that includes my Mother, Father, and my annoying younger sister, Hannah. Since she was born, she’s been the center of attention and left me in the shadows to be ignored and simply forgotten. I’m just a stupid prepubescent girl that wants some attention, it’s simple. But denied that fact, I strive for it. 

And that means to reach out and do something extreme, like going to Hell to even get your parents to glance at you. 

They’ve always been busy. Mrs. Hale works in the fashion industry and is on business trips almost every waking moment. Mr. Hale has a boring, non-progressive desk job and is worn out by the same schedule every single day. And me, just a boring old soon-to-be teenager left alone to babysit a useless four year old. 

I could really care less about what happened to my sister. She could fall down an elevator shaft or wander into the street to be ran over and mauled by a continuous stream of cars. Maybe then Leslie Hale would get some wanted attention. I mean, is it really that much to ask for?

I’m at school when I get the idea to travel to Hell. To be a tourist. No, I’m just passing through. Oh, I’m from Earth, the decaying planet. You know, just your normal attention seeker, a sinner, whatever you’d like to call me. And yes, I am a thirteen year old girl. That doesn’t mean I’m not aware of sinners and what people say about Hell; about the fire and the burning. And no, I’m not afraid of merely visiting, or staying there for the rest of eternity. 

Sounds like a needed vacation from this putrid society, if you ask me. But everyone is entitled to their shitty opinions.   
Some say school is Hell, but I say it’s nothing close to it. Are the walls burning and bees crawling over your skin? Are you ripped to shreds by demons almost every day just because they’re simply bored and in need of entertainment? No? Then you don’t know what it’s really like. I wouldn’t know, either, since I’m not there yet. I haven’t earned it. But here, you can read all about this in this pamphlet. It will tell you everything you need to know about planning your trip to Hell and what you need to be allowed inside. 

And if you are checked in, you can never leave even if you plead and cry. And really, it’s what you deserve if you check yourself into such a place. 

At school, I have only a few friends, and they’re batshit insane. Their names are Briana and Noah. They talk about apocalypse theories almost every day. About fire raining from the sky or the sun going too close and burning us up. Human beings themselves rioting and killing each other and all of their leaders, running the streets and living like barbarians back in the stone age. Turning back time. Going against modern life. Rebelling. Adding some needed spice to their boring, useless lives. Whatever you’d like to call it. I don’t know which saying I’d prefer, but I’ve heard enough theories to write a goddamn book already. 

They talk about humanity. Society. Authority. Control. 

They’ve spoken about how to kill someone and hide the body so no one could find them, even with a heat sensor or a dog that could track scents. They’ve spoken about how to kill a man by pressing on a certain pressure point on their body. Making it seem like a suicide. Running away and changing your name. Killing yourself after you sin so you don’t have to worry about the police chasing you down. So you don’t have to live a life in prison until you die of a fight or exhaustion; murder. 

They’ve even went as far as planning a school shooting, murdering all of the students and then aiming the gun between their eyes to rid themselves of this horrible, sinful Earth. 

I just listen. I sit there and listen to all of this as I silently eat my lunch. Simply sit and learn, they say. Takes notes, if you need to. But I don’t. I just remember what they say, because honestly, how can one not? When they’re talking about tying up and torturing the math teacher or suffocating the school’s jock, it’s hard not to listen. 

And I take mental notes. In the back of my mind, until I really need them. 

As you have gathered, we’re a grotesque group. We’re avoided. Jeered at. Scolded. Gibed. Teased. Whatever you want to call it, it’s up to you. But it’s nothing different in our everyday life. 

You need some meds, one blindly blonde girl jeers at me. I know, Leslie Hale replies. 

Come to the principal’s office, Leslie, the math teacher says. Again? Is the usual response, because when am I not being called in because of Briana and Noah’s fucked up antics? It’s only a part of my daily schedule. 

It’s a surprise neither of them haven’t been checked into a mental hospital already. Because they sure need one. 

Me? Oh, how kind of you to ask. No, I’ve never been to a mental hospital. My family doesn’t care about me, so why would they think of sending me to one? 

It’s nothing, Leslie, you’re just stressed, Mr. Hale drones on as he stirs the spaghetti in the pot. 

Go to extra help, you’re failing math and English, Mrs. Hale says, tapping away at her expensive phone. 

I know, Leslie replies, I’m aware. 

I’m fully aware. But I don’t care. Soon Leslie Hale won’t even be here. 

She’ll be checked in for eternity at Hell Hotel come a few days. No need to worry about your precious, precious child which you love and adore. Oh, there’s no need to fret, Mr. and Mrs. Hale. She won’t be a parasite any longer.


	2. Chapter 2

At night, that’s when my mind comes alive. When my subconscious starts to rave and burst with color. And this color isn’t always fireworks or meadows, art or anything graceful. It’s death, torture, murder—hell. All of my dreams, my nightmares, they’ve all been centered around living in such a place. 

I’ve seen hell as the cliché fire pit that’s it always talked up about as. Or the version where your phobia surrounds you and you can’t escape. Your family being killed in front of you. Your closest friends being choked to death. You yourself being murdered in cold blood, torn limb from limb and put back together again only for the action to be repeated. 

Oh, I’ve been to hell. But only has my mind. 

Soon, Leslie Hale will be there physically. For it is her highest dream she wishes to achieve. 

 

Off to school, Mr. Hale says. Don’t forget your lunch. ______ will be back later this week. She misses you. 

And by ‘you’ he means Hannah. 

Have a great day. Watch before you cross the street. Don’t fall asleep in class. Get a good grade on that history test. 

Blah. Blah. Blah. 

It’s all that fills my ears every morning, and it’s all pointed to sweet, dear little Hannah that seems to be some sort of shitty Goddess or something. I never thought I would hate a mere child so much that I would get nauseous at the thought of her. 

If only I could wring her little neck and choke her, hold that scrawny, useless, son of a bitch child up to the wall until she—

Here we are, have a good day! Mr. Hale repeats. 

I’ll try, Leslie Hale repeats to nothingness. 

The day drags on. Nothing interesting catches my eye other than the usual jock or nerd, the prep or the Goth—all those school stereotypes that you see in your movies and cliché books. All those written and filmed lies. They always make school seem so interesting and fun—well, it’s not, kid. You’re going to want to slit your throat or hang yourself, throw yourself off a bridge by the end of each day no matter who you are. It’s a suffocating, nauseating form of Hell that you can physically step into without signing any damn contract or dying. 

It’s amazing, when you think about it. A place as simple as walking into that makes prepubescent girls and boys and hormonal teenagers want to end their pathetic life and destroy the path that they engraved for themselves, whether it be off to a stable job and a family, or selling meth and cocaine on the street corner and flashing your tits for a twenty dollar bill and getting fucked in an alleyway by a total nasty, revolting stranger. 

Once you take that knife to your throat and flick your wrist, you destroy whatever the future holds for you. And, hey, if you’re lucky, someone would care if you died. 

Briana and Noah are talking about sticking a needle in the back of someone’s neck and hitting their spinal cord, causing them to die instantly. They’re talking about making a murder look like natural causes. To leave no blood spatter, leave no hand prints or poisons, odd markings or notes. Not like anyone would leave a note at a murder scene. Who the hell would be that idiotic? Someone out there probably would. Someone like Briana or Noah. 

A group of girls gives us a sideways stare of horror and it looks as though they’re about to cry. 

Good, Leslie’s eyes say. Cry and tell the principal about these two imbeciles again. I’ll just have to deal with the explaining once again and prevent them from getting sent to a crazy house. 

It isn’t until the next day I tell them about my plan. My destiny. What the future has paved out for me. 

I tell them of my plan to go to Hell. 

They stare at me like I own another head. 

It’s simple, Leslie Hale says, gesturing to the air. You sign up, if you’re willing. You kill yourself, you end up there anyway. You die and you end up in Hell against your will—that’s your own fault, you dumbass. 

They seem to be catching on.

Hell doesn’t seem that bad, honestly, Briana says, twirling a lock of damaged blonde hair around her bony finger. I just imagine it would be hot. 

True. 

Noah agrees. 

Seems comfortable, Noah states. Can’t see any silk beds or any beds being made down there or even existing, but sleeping on the floor isn’t that terrible of an experience. 

I agree. 

Sometimes I really love you guys. And by love, I meant resent. They really drive me up a wall, at times, and even though they should scare the living shit out of me, they don’t. Their rants are interesting. Different. Special, as some would say. Fucking terrifying, as the girl at the table next to us would say. Her clique agrees with a nervous shake of their fake blonde heads. 

Briana and Noah switch the topic to how they would love to see the leader blonde’s neck cut off slowly with a blunt knife. 

Poking at my freezer burned, lukewarm peas on my foam plate with a weak plastic spoon, I just sit there and listen. Soak in the details. Take mental notes for later use. 

The usual.


	3. Chapter 3

Hannah asks if she can use my laptop. 

Hell no, Leslie shakes her head, continuing to read up on contracts and signing them to get into her destined place. Of course, Hannah starts screaming and whining. 

Of course, Leslie Hale mutters under her breath. Such a typical four year old. 

I’d like to thank my parents for being such bastards and making this demon child. Isn’t it easy to keep it in your pants? Or at least wear a condom. Pull out. Birth control. There’s so many ways to not end up with a bratty child that thinks she’s the queen of the world. Or, is treated like one and doesn’t understand why. 

I could snap her neck right now. I could pull out a pin from one of Mr. Hale’s dress shirts and plunge it into the back of her neck. Push her out the window. Strangle her. Stab her. Drown her. 

There’s too many options to choose from. The brat’s already stomping away into the kitchen to have a hissy fit on the tile floor. 

Pathetic, Leslie Hale thinks, searching up sinners from all over the world. Searching up people that have successfully made it to Hell with their consent or not. It didn’t really matter, anyway. 

A man slit a baby’s throat and killed himself right after. It’s no doubt he’s in Hell at this very moment. I’m jealous. That should be me in his spot. My skin should be burning off and eyes should be melting from my skull from the intense heat. Lemon juice should be being poured on my skin as someone cuts me multiple times. Dipping me in a salt bath. Letting be bleed out and die, only to revive and continue the process over and over and over.   
A woman by the age of thirty killed her cocaine dealer and ended up dying because of the cocaine itself; an overdose. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Some people die in the most idiotic of ways, and it’s funny. Tragic to some, hilarious and joke-worthy to another. And I don’t find things tragic. It’s rare that I do. And when I find something to bawl about, it’s over in minutes. 

It’s no wonder that the other children at school avoid my group. We’re fucking insane. And I’m not even sure that Briana and Noah are aware of it. To them, speaking of murder is a casual topic. Cutting out biological male’s spleen. Dissecting a toddler and inspecting their heart. Tying down your math teacher and using a chef’s knife to make their skin look like pages of a book that you can turn, but much more bloody. 

To us, this is normal. To others, this is psychotic. Crazy. Mental. Whatever you prefer. I really don’t give a damn. 

A smash from the kitchen. Continued crying. 

Having to leave the laptop, an article about a man brutally killing his parents blaring on the screen, I go into the kitchen. Hannah broke a plate. Goddammit, Hannah. This is why I should murder you. 

She’s bleeding from the web of her finger. It’s hanging off like a flap that you could lift up on the back of a pair of old pajamas, except gruesome. Bloody. I could easily just let her bleed out. Cut a little deeper. Remove a finger or two. 

But, Mr. Hale will be home soon, and Mrs. Hale is in Tokyo. 

So I have to bandage Hannah up. 

What a bummer. 

She’s still crying when I go back to reading an article about a man that gouged out someone’s eyeballs and left them to die in the middle of a forest in Ohio. Suck it up, I want to say. She’ll tell Mr. Hale. He’ll just yell at me. 

Amazing, Leslie couldn’t help but let out a laugh. I love my life. 

A teenager murdered his father. Cut him up into pieces. Cooked and ate his liver and heart. Found tearing skin off of his father’s muscles after police were called in complaining about the horrible stench rising from the neighboring house after two weeks. Teenager put on death row, now serving time in prison. 

There’s no doubt that he’s in hell right now. Getting cut up into pieces slowly with a butter knife. Someone blinding him by sticking toothpicks in his pupils. Cutting off his penis and watching him bleed out as he cries and pleads for it to stop. Death, and repeat. Death, and repeat. 

And I’m jealous. That should be me, you twisted son of a bitch. I should have slaughtered my father and let him rot. Ate him for dinner and fed him to Hannah. Maybe I should have slaughtered her, too. Slow. Torture her. Cut off her cheek fat. Saw off her baby fat. Pull fingernails and toenails. 

Put her in as much pain as possible before she finally dies of exhaustion and blood loss. 

Mr. Hale isn’t due home for the next eight hours at least. Maybe I could just grab a knife from the kitchen and slit her throat. 

No, no. I have to wait for the right time. Drag it out and enjoy it. Not just some quick fix of gore and leave Hannah lifeless on the floor. Boring, too boring. But it would boost my chance of landing myself in hell. Maybe if I gutted her. Pulled out her nails. Gouged out her eyes. Scalped her and wore her ratty hair like a grotesque wig. Sewed her mouth shut. 

And when she finally died, I would finally wait for Mr. Hale to return home and I’d do the same thing to him. Bye-bye, Father. It was nice knowing you. Oh, you don’t love me. I’m just Leslie Hale, your first daughter. Pushed out of Mrs. Hale’s vagina. Caused her to be burdened with ugly stretch marks and made her throw up every morning for nine months. 

But this plan would have to wait for another time, because the front door swings open, and the tap of my father’s cheap, faux leather shoes tap irritatingly against the wood tiling. 

I’m home, he calls out. Hannah responds with a sob and a blubbering noise. 

Leslie simply continues reading about sinners.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s the weekend. Hannah is playing house with her ratty Barbie dolls and plastic house filled with cobwebs. I wouldn’t be surprised if a spider ended up crawling on her and she started screaming and crying like she did when she sliced the web of her hand. Hopefully she falls and cracks her skull open on the hard plastic and bleeds out. But Mr. Hale is home. 

A girl can only dream. 

We should go to the park, Mr. Hale suggests. Hannah giggles and raises her hand as if she needs the permission to speak. School has left an impact on her small, useless, growing brain.   
I wanna go, I wanna go! Hannah Hale shouts, dropping a mauled doll in her lap. 

Fuck no, Leslie Hale almost thinks aloud, twiddling her dull brown hair between her fingers. It’s supposed to rain anyway. 

But nobody listens. What a shame. 

We end up going to the park anyway. So much for taking votes and asking your prepubescent teen Leslie Hale if she wanted to tag along. 

The park is filled to the brim with slobbering, obnoxious children. Maybe I should call up Briana and Noah. We could snatch up a child that’s unattended and bring them behind the warehouse not too far from here. Test one of their murder plans. Bring a needle along, Briana, let’s kill her instantly. Noah, lets break her legs and make her mute, cut off her fingers so she can’t tell a single soul who did this to her. Well, if she survives by the end of it. 

Mr. Hale just sits there and reads a book on his tablet. Why can’t he just read from a regular book? 

Wasting trees, Mr. Hale says. Have some love for the environment. 

Little does he know, the idiot, that he’s still using energy, electricity, fuel—whatever you want to call it, I really don’t give a shit. Whatever floats your boat. 

Sitting on the bench and watching those little brats play on the playgrounds is boring. 

Dad, can I go see my friends? Leslie Hale asks. She only gets a curt nod from him as an answer, like that’s all she deserves. 

And part of me thinks that I do. 

I simply walk away and pull out my phone, tap up their numbers and shoot them a call. They’re free, of course, because what would they be doing with their lives? Searching up Sinners just like Leslie Hale does often. 

Meet me at the train tracks, Leslie Hale whispers through the phone. 

Of course, Noah and Briana respond, a giggle bubbling up through the phone receiver. They’re high again. No wonder they’re together. 

Hanging up on them, I climb up the steep hill to the abandoned train tracks near the equally abandoned warehouse.

Now, the waiting game.


	5. Chapter 5

Forty-five minutes pass before Briana and Noah finally climb up the steep hill and join me on the train tracks. It’s really no surprise that they’re high as a kite and giggling to themselves as they plop down on the wooden slats of the tracks. Briana has a small bag strapped against her back, and it reeks of weed. 

“We brought a bowl and what we got left of it.” Briana explains, a while, blissful grin plastered on her features. She slings the backpack to the ground and unzips it only to fish around on the inside, pulling out a lilac, flowery bowl that fits perfectly in the palm of her hand. She also pulls out a half a bag of what looks like mold or nasty moss that grows on the side of the warehouse sitting next to us. 

“Do you want some?” Briana asks. 

Noah says, hell yeah. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a standard lighter that you would find from the counter of a Rite Aid. 

Sure, Leslie shrugs. Why not. 

The bowl is passed around at a slow pace. I’m sure Briana is taking two hits each time, but I can’t bring myself to care. 

I suggest that we should murder someone. Anyone. Hannah Hale. Then maybe Leslie Hale would get some freedom. Mrs. Hale is out of the question entirely, since she’s placed in Tokyo for business reasons. 

“I think we should start with the math teacher. “Noah suggests after smoke flows smoothly out of his nose and lips. “His lessons are hard to keep up with.” 

“Only because of that? It’s not like I’m against the idea. Believe me, I want to stick needles in his corneas and rip apart his organs as much as the next guy, but there has to be something else there,” Leslie just has to open her mouth and speak. 

“His smile bothers me.” 

I agree.

“Then we can cut his lips off. Simple as that. But, of course, we’ll kill him,” Leslie Hale explains, taking a hit from the bowl. “I mean, we could keep him alive. Disable him. But he could probably contact the police and tell them what had happened, and others would be suspicious. I say we just cut his lips off, break his fingers, fillet him and slit his throat. Or better yet, let him bleed out. That would be more entertaining.” 

Noah and Briana hum in response, Briana taking the bowl from me and taking a long, successful hit; the smoke billowing out of her nose and mouth with a mellow expression coating her features. 

“Are you free Friday?” Noah pipes up, tilting his head to the side slightly. He has bags under his eyes. Probably from staying up late doing literally nothing. 

Briana and I nod. 

“I know he stays after on Friday to clean up and grade papers. We can catch him when he goes out to his car.” Noah explains, smoke rising from his nostrils and dissipating near the bags under his eyes and his thick, dull brunette hair. 

“I have rope.” Leslie Hale suggests, her hands resting on her bare, dirty knees; just uncovered by her long skirt. “Knives. Razors. Needles. Toothpicks. I prefer the toothpicks, myself. Splinters to go along with the blindness.” 

“I have pepper spray. We can spray his eyes and cuts.” Briana suggest, sounding bubbly and excited to murder this innocent math teacher. What can I say, I can’t wait to kill him either. He’d boost my chances to Hell, and I’m sure it’s going to be entertaining seeing him bleed and plead for forgiveness for whatever he has done, tears streaming from the holes where his eyeballs are supposed to be and pooling in a gash on his cheekbone. Easily, I can imagine that. But soon, I don’t want to. All three of us twisted students will be mauling him in our location of choice. 

Leslie and Noah nod their heads, agreeing. 

“Lemon juice.” Noah blurts out. “Let’s squeeze lemon juice in his cuts. Salt, too.” He also sounds absolutely psyched even thinking about killing this man in cold blood. 

“Get everything together over the week.” Leslie says quietly, as if they’re lost in a crowd and they don’t want anyone else to hear their sinister plans. Tomorrow was Sunday. More than 48 hours to get this dastardly plan pulled together and packed up. “Just have everything packed and ready to use on Friday. Noah, doesn’t your old man own a gun?” 

“Sure does.” The kid responds with a giggle, smoke thickly streaming from his chapped lips. 

“Bring it, just in case.” Leslie Hale is playing boss. The ringleader. A 13 year old dictator. “Oh, and bring a blunt objects. We have to knock him out.” 

Now, the plan is stringing together. We’re going through with this rather than talking about it and ranting about it and wasting our precious time on this shitty Earth. Follow your dreams. Pursue your art career, even though you’ll end up working on the smelly, polluted streets of New York. Pursue your singing career, even though you’ll be rejected anyway because your singing isn’t really all that great. Kill that teacher that you hate, even though you’ll most likely go to prison and rot. Or, if you’re smart, you’ll slit your throat or blow out your brains after you let them bleed out and take yourself down with them. 

We continue planning out our little party. Our celebration, whatever you wish to call it, I don’t care. Whatever floats your boat. 

Timing is the key, timing is when we dart out and hit him on the back of the head to knock him out. When we drag him behind the trees and tie him up. Drag him to abandoned warehouse. Nobody ever checks in there. Police rarely check for cults, or teenagers like us doing drugs, smoking weed or shooting up heroin; doing meth. (I only settle on weed, though. It’s the easiest drug to get, and you can share it and use it up, just to buy more from the local dealer.) But other than those yearly inspections, which are only two or so times a year, it’s totally abandoned and left for cults, teenagers, and the homeless to flood into to get high, sleep in, or just trespass out of sheer boredom. 

I don’t recall the time I climbed up to these tracks or spent how much time planning and plotting with Briana and Noah, but my phone rings. It’s a text from my father saying how I have to go back to the park, him and Hannah are leaving. 

Leaving Noah and Briana behind, they’re still high as a kite. 

I can still hear them giggling and chatting about overdosing as I make my way back to the park.


End file.
